"Oooo~, yougotsomethingforme?~" The girl excitedly retrieved the bag from the car, and changed clothes behind a bush. ...Classy.

She emerged in a patterned sundress complete with a broad hat. Unfortunately, this was barely any less sexual than what she normally wore, as Dante had bought the dress a size too small. "This what you're into? I feel like a grandma." She looked down at herself. Even with the dress not fitting correctly, she still almost looked like a proper lady for once.

She had even tied her hair up under the hat to disguise the bright green. She hid her .38 in the waist tie, and dumped her old clothing in the bag and back into the El Camino.

"I'm ready if you are. Don'tletmegetshot,kay?"

Unknown CallerGender: Seemingly male

The voice hesitated on the line for a long moment. The voice that eventually came on was robotically modified, Slim could easily hear the entire conversation. "This. Is not Richard Lionel. This is.... Ah. Hello Mr. Rosenburg."

Bizarrely, this was the client that had originally contacted Isaac about finding the green haired girl, V. The client also called himself "This, is V. I must say, this is an unexpected turn of events. I take this to mean Mr. Lionel has been terminated? Interesting. If this is the case, this phone is more secure. From now on, I will exclusively contact you on--"

The phone beeped once then died. It hadn't been touched for two weeks, it was a fucking miracle it was charged to begin with. The phone was of a different brand than either Slim or Isaac's, and took a different charger.

Isaac jerked the phone away from his ear when it died as if it had shocked him. He held it out from his chest and gave it a dead expression - one hand pinning the towel around his waist.

"Huh..." he said in a rather bemused tone after staring at the device silently for a long moment. The Jew then turned back towards the bathroom and tossed the phone leisurely next to Slim on the bed. "Well, I'm going to find a phone charger. Get dressed or whatever you need to do if you're coming, too, Twig," Isaac said in a flat voice as he walked back into the bathroom where his clothes were.

No, he didn't seem phased by the fact that his main employer, V, had just called Richie's phone as if the dead man was a contact. And, no, he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, that wasn't his business.

“So long as you return the favor.” Jack straightened his sport coat and took a breath before turning to look at his companion with a discerning eye. The dress was a bit small, but it would have to do. No time for anything else.

“...You look fine, now come on. If anyone gets suspicious you let me handle ‘em, got it? Good.” Jack squared his shoulders and started towards the golf course with Violet in tow, doing his best not to look like a hitman. Luckily he had dressed down a tad.

~~~

It wasn’t long before the two of them spotted Mr. F, a man like him stands out. He stood with his knees bent and a putter in his hands on the green of the first hole. Three others accompanying, including two caddies. Dante patted the gun in his shoulder holster and stared at the four men who golfed less than 20 meters away.

The man on the other end didn't get to finish his sentence before the phone finally died. Isaac straightened up, "Well, I'm going to find a phone charger. Get dressed or whatever you need to do if you're coming, too, Twig."

He left to change in the bathroom and Slim took this chance to quickly change as well. Dark denim skinny jeans, a loose black blouse. All tied together with a pair of blank ankle boots. She piled her blonde locks on the top of her head into a messy bun before proceeding to wait out in the living room for the Jew to finish up.

Once he finally joined her, she took this time to ask him, "So, who's V? And why does he know both you and Richie?"

When Isaac finally returned to the living room, he was dressed pretty casually. His hair was combed back - a few strands falling in front of his ears and around his eyes. He was wearing an unbuttoned, loose-fitting tan jacket - inside the inner pocket was his small snubnose .357 Magnum, just in case - over a plain white T. His shirt was tucked into the waistband of his dark, brown denim jeans which matched an equally brown pair of loafers.

He picked his phone, his wallet, and Richie's dead phone off the counter before putting them in his pockets. He had flipped his phone open to briefly check if he had any missed calls. He hadn't.

"Alright," he said and opened the door of the pair's apartment. He ignored her questions until they were in the car - a small, rusted 2000 Chrysler. Finally, after starting the vehicle and pulling out into the traffic of the city, Isaac began to talk. "V is the reason I came to New Angeles. V are two different people. The first being my client who hired me to find someone. And the second being the name of the person I was meant to find: a girl with green hair who goes by V. Confusing, I know. What I don't know is how they know Richie, but I don't care much about that."

The young lady had to flatter her palms against the fabric of the dress to keep it from revealing anything thanks to the summer breeze. The dress made her look demure, far and away from her normal garb.

“Any ideas?” Dante had asked.

Violet shrugged "Those caddies are innocent enough but the other guy with F," is a cop, look at the way he holds himself, just like my Father "Is a body guard. Look at the way the fabric of his clothes bends, he's got a piece."

The girl looked around the greens contemplatively "Obviously you need to get rid of those guys with him, right? Witnessesarebad." The girl shook her head. She was fresh out of ideas, at least she had helped get them this far. "It's on you, I'mhereifyouneedme."

Something about the situation made her nervous. Maybe she wasn't okay with helping kill someone after all. Maybe she just didn't like the idea of seeing someone she knew die. But she had too. Dante had dragged her along this far.

“Right, ok. Well, fuck.” The man rubbed the back of his neck and furrowed his brow, lost in thought.

“I, uh. Hm. Gimme a sec darling.” Dante turned away and started to pace across the grass, occasionally glancing at the four of them. They’d be getting in the cart in a moment, moving towards the second hole. That wouldn’t be so bad, but he’d have to follow them, and that would look suspicious as all hell. He had to figure out a way to get rid of the caddies, and he really didn’t want to have to kill them. Killing two innocents was just a little much. He had worked as a caddy one summer when he was younger, and he had far too much sympathy for them to go around blowing their brains out. But he had to think of something, he was running out of time.

The cart. That would certainly attract their attention in a non-lethal matter. Might even make a snazzy escape vehicle if it came to that. He stopped his pacing and returned to his accomplices side, staring idly at the passing clouds.

“Alright, Plan A. You go steal that golf cart and get those caddies after you. Keep your head down, try not to give ‘em anything to recognize, if you know what I mean. Meanwhile, I do what I do and try not to get shot. There is no Plan B. Thoughts?”

The accomplice nodded, she would have felt slightly better if her not being shot had been in the plan as well. Oh well. Dante wasn't asking terrible much of her, and he hadn't asked her too stick her leg out as distraction, so it was certainly a step up from their usual dynamic.

The girl tilted her hat a bit lower and quietly slinked off toward to group of men. She hadn't bothered wishing Dante luck, she doubt he needed it. Mr. F and his company were quite focused on discussing his follow through, and far to enveloped in their conversation to notice her presence until she had already started the cart and pulled away.

The two caddies bolted into action immediately, comedically tripping over themselves to go after the cart while Mr. F chuckled incredulously at the sight and his body guard only shook his head in disbelief.

Jack watched in a bizarre combination of amazement and amusement as the caddies ran after the cart with their arms in the air, yelling obscenities. Whatever you said about the Violet or her idiosyncrasies, she was helpful beyond belief. There was no question. She’d even noticed that F’s pal was packing heat. Quite impressive for someone so… young. Yeah, young.

Dante shook his head. He had to focus. He had a job to do, and he was wasting the precious time that ploy had managed to buy him. He took a breath and reached into his sport coat, pulling out his fully loaded M9. His navy gun. The gun that had saved his life more times than he cared to count.

He strode towards the two men quickly and quietly, raising his weapon to aim at the center of the bodyguard’s back, directly at where his heart should be. He fired off two rounds at the man before either of the golfers could turn at the sound of the safety clicking off just fifteen meters behind them. As soon as Dante pulled the trigger, time itself seemed to slow down to a crawl. He could see the muzzle flash as sparks and lead shot out of the barrel faster than the speed of sound.

In a single instant Jack saw himself in combat gear, staring at the bodies of the enemy without feeling. He saw himself back in New York, looking down the barrel of a gun at a drug deal gone wrong. He saw himself writhing in pain on a couch in a dingy apartment with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pair of bloodied forceps in the other.

It wasn’t until Dante heard the sound of a gun being drawn that he snapped back into the present, dropping to the grass with weapon still in hand. He couldn’t lose it, not now. He had to kill F. After that, he could retire to Miami, buy a boat, whatever. But not until it was finished.

He squeezed off another two round towards his target and rolled to the side.

"Okay. V1 and V2. Got it." Slim sank back into the passenger seat. She cut the A/C off and rolled the window down before placing a cigarette between her lips. Marlboro black menthols. They weren't the best but they did the trick. She took a deep drag, feeling the nicotine buzz start to take effect.

"So, how long has V1 put on the lookout for this V2?" She took another drag, ashing out the window. "I guess I assumed everyone from the Mr. F/Yakuza fiasco was here either solely for that botched job or were already settled here previously with their own shtick. Not on some other job."

After what seemed to Tanaka to be ages just simply standing there staring at the wall of the apartment, not entirely sure why himself, he finally snapped out of his reverie and, after a bit of effort of will, eventually acknowledged Chen. "What are YOU complaining about? You failed! If it were up to me, your guts would be spilled by your own hand."Why not bring up Seppuku? It's relevant... Right?No matter, tanaka thought, In a way I'm to blame. I underestimated the determination and will of those... Eer... For about 10 minutes Tanaka stood there, staring off into some unseen direction trying to think of an accurate description for those gangsters, a task easier said than done taking into account tanaka' slack of presence at the scene. He couldn't even think of anything more offensive than "cracker", that being one of the few none necessary English words he knows, the others being "murder" and " HOLY FUCK THAT CHINK HAS A FUCKING KATANA!!!"Eventually he dropped the matter all together and turned his attention back on Chen."What now?"

The old man heard the sound of a safety clicking off and immediately responded, reaching for his Taurus Raging Bull revolver. Before he could even turn around, his body guard had fallen. Time seemed to move in slow motion.

Fairbank saw the assailant drop to the ground, and both parties fired their weapons twice. Mr F didn't live long enough to know he had missed his first shot, or that his second had dug home in his assailant's shoulder. Mr F didn't even live long enough to see the muzzle flash of the bullet that killed him.

Jack did see the muzzle flash. He felt a blunt force like someone smashing a baseball bat to his shoulder and gasped. Turning his head to the side, Jack saw a patch of darkness spread across his blazer, but felt nothing. No pain. Not yet. The adrenaline would make sure that he wasn’t screaming in agony for at least another few minutes.

“Well, shit,” he muttered with teeth clenched tight. Jack rolled onto his back, lying on the cool grass for a moment as he attempted to calm himself. He was starting to feel it now. A burning feeling, heat radiating away from the hole the bullet tore in his flesh. He had to move, before it became impossible to.

Jack pushed himself up from the ground with his good arm and stumbled towards the body of the man he killed, stashing his gun in his waistband. His breathing was getting heavy and uneven, he’d have to make this quick. With a groan, Jack bent down and grasped the shining steel of F’s weapon. He stared at it, turning it over in his hand. A thing of beauty, truly. Gorgeous.

He heaved a sigh that turned into a sharp exhalation of air as the pain grew in his shoulder. His whole body seemed to sag in exhaustion, in resignation. The man raised the item over his head, and with one swift movement, chucked it into the nearest water hazard.

Jack looked back down at the corpse and dropped to his knees. The burning was growing, it felt like someone pressing a hot poker into the wound. With a shaking hand, he started to pat down the body as fast as he could. He didn’t have much time.

He pocketed a set of keys and eventually came up with a wallet, flipping it open with the thought that he could find out the real name of the person he had been hired to kill. What he did not expect was to find a piece of gleaming metal engraved with the words ‘New Angeles Chief of Police.’

“...Oh motherfucker.”

~~~

The man stumbled towards his vehicle with his arm draped across the shoulders of his drop-dead assistant and muttered obscenities at the air. Luckily the police proved unreliable as always and the first squad car arrived only once Jack sat safely in the passenger seat of his car, shivering in pain, with Violet behind the wheel. Surprisingly or perhaps not, his only thought was on how hard it would be to get so much blood out of the leather and suede upholstery.

Last edited by Thade on Thu Aug 11, 2016 5:40 pm; edited 2 times in total

"Vinny! Bredrin, wah gwaan?!" hollered a tall Jamaican man as he emerged from a smoky room. The foreigner had long, snake-like dreadlocks, sported red shutter shades, and was missing a massive chunk of his left ear almost like it was bitten off. As for his sense of fashion, it certainly said a lot about his personality: dirty brown combat boots, dark green cargo pants that rattled with every step he took, an over-sized camouflage jacket with a picture of Bob Marley on the back, and lastly an NWA t-shirt with a delightful little message that read: "Fuck The Police!" Truly a remarkable man in all his splendor.

Spotting his newly-adopted Irish associate rummaging around behind the counter for his stash, Chekhov snapped his finger at Luka, "Bredda, top row, right corna', next ta da cookie ja! Dat dere wa yah snoopin' roun' fa, Lucky?" That was the 76th time he said Luka's name wrong this week.

After finding the weed Luka rolled himself a blunt, leaned back in a wooden chair, and propped his legs up on the counter.

"--ets fuckin' shot, and instead of goin' back to HQ, they want us staying on this lame fuckin' stake out, knowing goddamned well nothin's gonna happen." Buddy droned on, complaining about the same thing he had been for last 2 hours, 47 minutes, and 13 seconds exactly. Guy offered a noncommital grunt, mashing his cigarette butt out on the dashboard before letting it fall to the floor boards to lay forgotten among a pile of other refuse.

Buddy began a new tirade about some other exciting complaint, but Guy was too busy eyeing a new arrival. Someone had to do the actual police work here at least. Newly pulled into the parking lot of the office building was a slick Kawasaki bike Guy swore he had seen a few weeks back, but that wasn't the only thing that caught the eye. The driver was something else.

The biker would have been more at home at a rave than on the streets, with a neon pink vest and bright blue helmet, typical punk tattoo sleeves and torn jeans. It was like a alt-scene cliche on an acid trip.

The biker killed his ride and propped it on its kickstand as he dismounted, never removing his helmet. At this point Guy motioned for his partner to shut the hell up and indicated towards the new comer. The punk marched right up to the front door of the office, producing a cleaver. Security didn't waste a second, a guard hustling out of the glass door and asking demanding to know what was happening.

Buddy shook his head "Does this gay pride flag looking dandy know this is a fucking Russian Mob front? There's no way in hell he wou-- Oh fuck!"

BikerOh fuck indeed

The cleaver sliced through the air with minimal resistance, slashing the guard's face and causing him to reel back in pain. The assailant kicked forward, his riding boot shattering the glass pane of the door open, a receptionist screaming in the corner, a flick of the wrist and the cleaver sang across the room into her throat, accentuated by a fountain of gore spurting from her artery.

The biker crossed the room to the elevator, reaching it just as a frightened intern was mashing the door-close button. Once in the elevator, the neon clad man simply pointed up, prompting the frightful worker to mash the top floor button.

At the 8th and final floor of the office building, the steel double doors of the elevator opened, revealing the biker holding the young man hostage "He's got a gun!" the cry rang out as security rushed forward, raising their handguns.

A moment's hesitation, all he needed. The very much un-armed biker kicked his hostage toward one of the trio of rent-a-pigs, rushing a second and seizing his arm, redirecting the guard's arm, narrowly avoiding a bullet to the head and smashing the front of his helmet to the man's face, splattering blood against the faceplate of his headgear and knocking the guard unconscious.

The second guard had been toppled over by the flung hostage, and the biker violently kicked the pig's gun down a hallway of cubicles. He was sure that people must have been screaming, pulling alarms, dialing the police, but damned if he could hear it. All he could was the pumping of blood in his ears and the rush of adrenaline.

And a bang. And a ringing in his ears. A trickle ran down the side of his face.

The biker stomped his boot on the fallen officer's throat, crushing it with a disgusting noise before turning toward the last pig standing, as it dawned on him what just occured.

He was just shot in the head.

His helmet was chipped, he could feel the metal pressing against his skull, the burning of his blood on his cheek. Well that's just fucking great. How many people get shot in the head and don't die? He must be the first.

He crossed the distance towards the last guard before the man could even muster the sense to fire again, slapping the gun from his hands and slamming a fist to his face once, twice, a few dozen times until the blood and skin just made a squishing instead of a satisfying crunch on impact. The biker rose and crossed to the fire alarm, yanking it down.

The elevators ceased to work in an emergency. Somewhere in a back room of the bosses' office a red alert button was being mashed over and over, and on the other floors (the ones that weren't upstanding call centers, you know, the ones with armed criminals instead of soccer moms working a day job, yeah those floors) guns and bats were being drawn and men shouting Russian at each other, ready to have a field day on the intruder.

The biker counted the approximate steps of the staircase, elbowing the glass out of an emergency case and seizing a fire ax. He gave himself 20 seconds before the back up arrived and that was more than enough time.

Buddy and Guy20 seconds later

From the 8th floor of the office building, a window shattered, and a body fell, crashing into the two's undercover car, crushing the hood in. "Oh fuck, fuck what the fuck is this, what is that oh FUCK.

The twisted visage of a Russian underboss' dead eyes stared as Guy stuttered a request for back up into the radio "Yes, one fucking guy, okay, he just fucking threw a guy into my car, send back up! I'm not kidding, Janet don't give me this shit, do I sound like I'm fucking kidding? Have you ever seen Buddy scream like a bitch, Buddy, scream like a bitch."

Warren stepped onto the street, raising his badge at the first car he saw "Warren Michaels, NAPD Detective" he barked, sliding into the backseat "I'm commandeering this vehicle and the both of you on police business, head to the corner of 9th and Charles, no stop lights, fast."

Warren Michaels had just commandeered the automobile of one Jack Godwin, cop killer.

Luka leaned back as far as he dared in the creaking wooden chair, stretching his sore abdomen as he nursed the joint between his lips, eyeballing the uncomfortable looking priest as the fat Italian spoke.

"'Es a fookin' made man?" Luka spat, fumbling with the joint as he dropped it into his lap, the chair slamming down onto four legs, "What kinda preacher are you, you fookin' just goin' around whackin' people for the Mob? Aye, whats the world comin' to..."

Vinny shrugged "Hey, you hand me one of those antiques off the shelf, I'll show you a knick-knack paddy whack, you fuckin' potato-breath motherfuckah."

"Ohhh, this comin' from a man who looks like he tinks manual labor is a Spanish musician, ey tubby? You're about as fit as a butcher's fookin' hound, you could stand a day on the railroad yourself."

"Yeah whatever, you're about as funny as a burning orphanage, prick. Checkmate, where do you get assholes like this, you keepin' company like this, hell I might take my business to the goddamned Yakuza, forgive me Father."

The priest nervously half smiled

"Or hell," Vinny gestured wildly, "maybe even the--"

"Russians?" came a deep feminine voice with a very Soviet undertone. So caught up in their dialogue, the men had failed to notice two new entries into the pawn shop, an intimidatingly tall dykish woman in a dress and designer fur coat, and a scarred man in a white suit at her heel.

"Well shit, lads, this ones got a face that'd drive rats from a cheese factory! Gotta face like a bulldog that's licked piss off a pinecone!"

"You got any idea who you're talkin' about?!" Vinny stared Luka down like a disobedient child "Thats Madame Viktoriya, she's the head of the Russian Mob'a these parts, you fuckin' fuck!"

"Oh yeah, a girlie built like a 18 wheeler is a Boss, eh? That's fookin' gobshite, next you'll be feedin' me a nice line about you bein' an underboss, and the priest bein' a fag, yeah? 'Ats a load o' shite!"

"I am an underboss you prick!"

Lady Viktoriya cleared her throat assertively "Gentleman, this is amusing but I prefer dinner with my show, da?"

"Alright, say I fookin' buy this for two seconds, which I don't, why the hell would a Boss come to a pawn shop for guns? Especially a Russian, don't you have guns pourin' from your cooter, ma'am?"

"Gentleman. Please. Put the dicks away, thank you. Now, I'm here because Mr. Chekhov simply has some of the finest items in stock, and I'm browsing for a special gift for my companion here." The suited man behind her grinned, revealing a mouth full of shattered and missing teeth. "I'm allowed to shop, aren't I?"

"Do as ye damn well please, I don't even fookin' work here, I'm a wet dog in a kennel."

Vinny shook his head. "I'm here for the same reason, Checkbox, pickin' up somethin' nice and quiet for the white collar here, yeah? You mind showin' us the uh, the special stock?"

As the conversation finally found itself on track, Luka lapped his tongue loosely at the air, smacking audibly "Me mouth's drier 'n a nun's arsecrack..."

"So, how long has V1 put on the lookout for this V2?" Slim said, taking another drag of her cigarette before ashing it out the window. "I guess I assumed everyone from the Mr. F/Yakuza fiasco was here either solely for that botched job or were already settled here previously with their own shtick. Not on some other job."

Isaac raised his eyebrows. "V1 and V2, huh? That's going to make things easier to keep straight in my skull. Wish I'd met you earlier, Stick," the Jew said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. "V1 contacted me about three or four weeks back. I was in Texas then. No idea how they found me. I was laying low in some shitty motel after a difficult gig. They contacted me and paid my way here, which wasn't a small penny. Told me they'd pay me five times that much. If they've been looking for V2 before that, I wouldn't know."

He pulled into the parking lot of a rather old-looking general store. Actually, it was almost ancient. The parking lot looked almost ruined. A yellowish sand or dirt had replaced almost all of the lot's asphalt, and the building itself looked like a relic from the forties. When Isaac stepped out of the Chrysler, he almost expected to see a tumbleweed roll across the front of the building or an Irish-Need-Not-Apply taped to the glass pane.

Isaac told his partner that it wouldn't take him a moment to get what they came for. When he opened the door to the building, the air from outside rushed inwards as if Isaac had walked inside of a vacuum. The only cashier inside was an old man. He wore a trucker's cap and looked up at Isaac from his newspaper in scorn. Unfazed, Isaac approached him and pulled out Richie's dead phone.

"Chargers?" the Jew asked.

The elderly man scoffed and looked back down at his paper. "Aisle five."

Isaac, expressionless, turned and walked away. The lights above him buzzed noisily and flickered -- every single one of them. Some of the sand and dust had gathered around the floor in small, neat little piles. The shelves themselves were dusty and void of any kind of merchandise. Had the man not told Isaac where the chargers were, he would have simply looked around at the barren oddity of the store and walked away.

Still, as it were, he half expected the man to be senile. Yet, there it was. At the very end of aisle five, Isaac could see a package that somehow he knew would be what he was looking for. When he arrived, Isaac bent down to pick up the charger off of the bottom shelf. He stood upright again after retrieving it and turned his head slightly to see the eyes of a tiny, old woman looking up at him.

Isaac's eyes widened as he stared at hers. It was one of the strangest and perhaps most frightening things he'd ever seen. They were pure black. The woman's eyes were completely and totally pitch black. That combined with her dead, open-mouthed emotionless face caused Isaac to take a step back.

"Fuck..." he muttered under his breath.

The Jew simply stared at the woman. It wasn't until almost a full minute did he realize that his right hand had slipped inside of his tan jacket -- hovering an inch away from his .357 Magnum.

The woman had made no movement whatsoever however. He took a breath to calm himself and stepped forward. Leaning down towards the curiously eerie sight, Isaac waved his hand in front of the woman's dead face. No response. "Hello..?" No response. He then poked the woman's forehead. "Fuck!" He yanked his hand away quickly and gripped his finger. She was fucking hot! Burning! It had felt to Isaac as if he'd just touched a boiling pot.

Isaac backed away from the woman -- staring at her with a confused expression. A few steps backwards and he turned around to walk forward down the aisle. He took a look back to see that the woman had not moved. He then began running. Sprinting even. When he finally made it out of the aisle, he almost slid into an empty magazine stand.

"Fuck are you doin', son?"

Isaac jerked his head towards the old cashier. Breathing heavily, he walked towards the man -- looking back over his shoulder towards aisle five more than once. "You got ghosts, old man?" he asked as he approached the counter.

"Ghosts?" he laughed as Isaac placed the packaged charger in front of him. "Yeah, I got ghosts. We all do, son."

"That's not- Forget it..." Isaac decided not to press it. Maybe he was going crazy. If he was, he didn't want to look like he was going crazy. Only thing worse than going crazy was looking like it. "You only sell chargers here? Where's all your stuff?"

"We sell bespoke," the man said as he rung Isaac up.

"Bespoke? There's nothing here, man. You don't have anything to sell," Isaac said as he paid the man.

"We sell bespoke," the man repeated.

Isaac pffted derisively and took his change and the charger before walking away wanting nothing more than to be rid of this place.

Last edited by Mr. Fountain on Mon Aug 22, 2016 11:43 am; edited 2 times in total

"The special stock?" the Jamaican responded with a grin. "Now yuh talkin', bredda!"

"Madame Viktoriya," Chekhov addressed the Russian underboss, by her correct name that is, showing that he had far more respect for her than anyone else in the room. "Yuh more dan welcome to join me an' da bwoys in da back room."

Chekhov nodded at the woman, even going so far as too hold the door open for her, allowing her to enter before anyone else. Meanwhile, the Irishman stared at him shift-eyed and confused. What Luka didn't realize was that Chekhov built his business selling Russian-procured weapons and that thirty-five percent of the profits went straight back to Russian mob, a nominal fee by his standards, hence the name Chekhov.

After everyone had made their way into the back room, they quickly began eyeing over three large glass display cases mounted at the south-facing section of the room. On display were all the classics: M16's, Uzi's, AR-15's, and, of course, AK-47's being the most common among them. Chekhov's collection extended far beyond those four though. With the guns he was selling, the room could be more aptly described as a Toys "R" Us for rednecks, gangsters, terrorists, and depressed high school students.

Bypassing Vinny and the Russians, Chekhov marched right over to Luka, who was eyeballing a pristine M1911, tightly grasped the underside of the Irishman's right arm, dragged him across the room as if were a father disciplining his own son, and swung open a door leading to a stairwell. Jerking Luka around to face him, Chekhov said, "Your friends are upstairs, Lulu. Time yuh go see 'em, don't ya tink?"

Shoving Luka into the other room, Chekhov turned around to face his customers, exposing his shiny golden grin once again, and said, "Okay, who's first? Madame, yuh see anyting yuh like?"

"C'mon, just let me out, I'm dying in he-- No. No don't post a guard on the door that's just embarrassing. What do you mean you already-- What? No. C'mon! Can I at least have my fucking guns ba-- you what. Why would you pawn those. I swear to god I am going to beat you so fucking bad your ancestors disown you you fucking shitstain I'll-- hello? Hello? Fuck!"

Chen dropped the wired phone in annoyance, letting it hang. He couldn't stand ten more minutes locked up in this apartment on an indefinite grounding. And whats more he wasn't alone. He glanced over his shoulder at Tanaka sound asleep on the couch, and in that moment decided he couldn't stay here a second longer.

"Okay. Front door not an option, no fire escape..." The hitman eyed the window, peering outside into the parking lot, where an abandoned van sat, covered in graffiti. That was his out.

He slid the window open and poked his head out, confirming his childish hope of their being a full garbage bin directly under the window. It was a few feet away from the building, and they were three stories up. If he fucked up, he'd be in the hospital next to the last few people he shot.

He had to confirm something before he even tried. He leaned over the back of the couch, "Tanaka?" he prodded his fellow Yakuza lightly in the face "Taaaaanaaaaakaaaaa. Tanaka?"

.... "HEY TANAKA ITS THE 5-0, BEAT FEET!"

..........

Tanaka snorted and rolled over on the couch. Great.

Chen made sure the window was propped open as widely as it could be and spent a moment miming the jump before shaking his head. He didnt want to see the ground rushing at him.

He turned his back to the window, he'd jump out on 3.

1

2

..... eeehhh... This is a stupid idea. Maybe-- oh fuck it.

Chen leapt backwards out of the window, pushing off the ground with his feet as hard as he could. His initial relief was in actually clearing the window and not hitting the wall. Sometime after that he closed his eyes without really meaning to.

Then came the sickening crunch and the sharp pain in his back. This was it, he thought. This was the end. He opened his eyes, looking down to see his horribly mangled body. His legs twisted like pretzels, his spine snapped like a twig.

Except not. He was safely in the garbage bin. He wriggled a bit of rubbish out of the small of his back and crawled out of the bin. The putrid stench of trash had stained his clothes, and he discarded his suit jacket, making his way to the van.

Finding it unlocked, he slid into the driver's seat, "Keys, keys, keys. Keys?" He flipped the sunvisor down, checked the ignition, popped the glove box open, no dice.

The jingle of keys rattling next to his head drew his attention. He turned his head towards them only for a machine pistol barrel to be pressed to his head from the back seat. "Fuck me, goddamnit."

The Nose left her waiting in the car. After only a minute of sitting in silence, Slim kicked open the door. Stepping out onto the dirt, she lit up another cigarette and paced around the lot. She proceeded to kick a single rock around as she chiefed on the cancer stick. The store that Isaac disappeared into couldn't be seen into from the outside. Slim found the tinted windows odd. What kind of store doesn't want to show their merchandise to the average window shopper?

Not seeing a receptacle in the area, Slim shrugged to no one in particular and tossed the butt onto the ground, stepping on the still lit end with her heel. The Jew was taking longer than expected. Slim leaned against the vehicle and took in her surroundings. A little ways down the street was a huge office building with it's own parking garage attached. The modern style of the building seemed futuristic compared to the dump that the two were parked in front of. An incredible difference in time not even a mile apart.

Suddenly, Slim perked up at the familiar roar of a motorcycle. The bright, flashy attire of a strange biker zoomed past her and into the aforementioned parking garage. The stark contrast in color from the biker to the ride had made it appear as if the biker was riding some kind of ghost bike. But Slim saw it. The unmistakable white gleam. Her bike.

"That lousy son of a bitch," Slim grit her teeth. Without a second thought, Slim snatched out one of the hidden weapons from the glove compartment--a Smith & Wesson 9mm--and checked to see if it was loaded before stashing it in the waistline of her pants, using her blouse as a cover.

Quickly making her way across the road and over to the parking lot, she watched the ensuing horror that was occurring. The biker smoothly taking out the security guard and making his way into the building. Slim took this as her chance and rushed over to her bike. She still had the keys, but could see where it had been hotwired. She checked to see if the key still worked and sure enough, the bike purred to life.

A window smashing on the other side of the building was Slim's cue to get the fuck out of there before whoever this crazy demon biker man came back.

Slim could see Isaac finally leaving the store and tried to quickly ride over to him without causing too much noise disturbance. The Jew looked completely befuddled by whatever just went on in that store, but didn't give him a chance to speak, "Hey, uh, two things. One... I found my bike! Two... we need to get out of here. Now."

The voice sounded distant, muffled. As if he was underwater, slowly slipping down to the depths as people cried out from the surface. Only two words stood out to him in the slew of ringing and yelling and gasping. Detective. Commandeer.

Jack stared, his features drained and pale. He saw the glint of a badge, his mouth open and eyes wide as the passenger side door opened. He clutched his left arm to his chest as his right slid into his blazer and loosely gripped the cool steel of his gun in its holster.

“V- Violet... “ Jack clenched his teeth and pushed his gun into the crack between the seats, hidden, but within her reach. “Shoot him….”

The dark skinned man barked orders as he tried to clamber into the cramped, two seater vehicle. It was a matter of milliseconds before he noticed the blood, and the man contorted in pain in the seat.

The Mocha skinned moe accomplice draped her dark fingers over the Beretta Jack pushed between the seats, lower her head to conceal her face beneath the brim of her hat. She didn't need to look at her father to know his reaction when he saw Jack's gunshot wound. There would be no shock or confusion, he would know what he was looking at immediately, and then he'd see her face. She couldn't have that. She couldn't have her father know she was just an accessory to murder.

She pushed Jack's pistol further between the seats, instead hiking up her dress and retrieving her .38 special from concealment, reaching her arm across Jack and yanking the trigger wildly. The muzzle flashed in Warren's face. The sound of the shot rang intensely in her ears. Her father fell backwards onto the asphalt with a groan.

Violet dropped the gun to the floor boards and pealed the El Camino out, reaching into Jack's pocket and retrieving his phone, dialing a random contact. She couldn't deal with this alone.

Vinnie

Vinnie smoothed out his hawaiian shirt as the other's in Chekhov's store did their shopping. The entire process was slow and boring. Father Angelo poured over seemingly half the guns in the store before ultimately picking a miniature pistol and suppressor from the Beretta brand that fit in the palm of your hand, and a break-down sniper rifle that fit into a case when disassemble. Vinnie sighed "You're making me broke, here, Father." as he produced several rolls of hundred dollar bills from his pockets, sighing as he tediously counted out the sum asked of him. Too much, in his opinion.

Vinnie had only just handed over the money when his phone went off. Jack Godwin's number displayed on the caller ID. Vinnie brought the phone to his ear and looked over his shoulder. Madame Viktoriya and her bodyguard were arguing over the practicality of a pump-action grenade launcher that looked like something you only saw in video games.

"Heylooknotimetotalk, Jack's hurt, I need help." Came the feminine voice through the phones speaker. The girl talked at such a clip that Vinnie had to take a moment to register what was just told to him.

"Wait, hurt how, who is this?"

"Hegotshotlookhe'sbleedingcanyouhelpornot?"

Vinnie blinked several times. Was that English? "Look, I uh, I'll text you my address, you bring Jackie boy by and I'll have my doctor there for a house call, okay doll?"

The call ended with a click. "Rude ass bitch, didn't even say goodbye. Kids these days, fuck.' Vinnie texted his address before grabbing Angelo's shoulder "Father, no time to gift wrap, an associate of ours is in a spot of shit, ya digs? I wanna make sure he's safe as houses, so we gots to go."

Vinny half raised his hand goodbye and mumbled his parting as the Russian madame signed a check for her associates grenade launcher and a gaudily decorated pistol for herself before leaving the store and racing home. He wondered if Jack's injury had to do with that job he was given.

Luka

He wasn't stoned enough for this. Wade and Lee hadn't talked to him much if at all in the past two weeks, and every time he saw them they seemed to be talking about him behind his back. He knew they were the reason he was pretty much hostage, but he could hardly fathom why. The whole situation gave him knots in his stomache. Pulling his jacket more closed, Luka massaged his aching ribs as he ascended the staircase, and as he got to the door to the upstairs apartment he hesitated. He wondered if he could hear what they were saying on the other side of the door, if they were talking about him, even.

He leaned forward, pressing his ear to the door. His less than sober mind struggled to perform the basic motor function and it was more like he pratfalled directly into the door. It was bashed open and he spilled onto the floor in front of them with a groan "Oooh my f-- me ribs feel like the consistency of pixiestix..." He stumbled to he feet "uhhh, heh... 'ello lads."

Buddy and Guy

"Are you seein' this, this bitch is fuckin' takin that guys bike? Is she an accomplice or is this the worst GTA I've ever seen?"

"She used keys, Buddy. I doubt it's a robbery."

"Then call it in, man, She must be an accomplice!"

"You wanna go chasin' broads when some fuck is committed a mass homicide-slash-vigilante movie plot right in front of us? You are a shit fucking cop, Dacote."

Guy hesitated for several moments before grabbing the police radio "HQ this is Officer Cooper, requesting permission to respond to--"

JanetOccupation: NAPD Dispatch

"--suspected accomplice, please advise. uh. HQ? Hello?"

Janet licked the tips of her fingers, delicately turning the page of a fashion magazine, careful not to touch her still wet fingernails to the glossy paper for fear of smudging her nail polish.

"Janet, you fucking cock pocket can we respond or not?"

"Mmmmhm." She sighed, muting the headset for some peace and quiet.

Guy and Buddy

"Did that bitch just 'mhm' you?"

"Mhm."

"For fucks sake, whatever, let's just go."

"Can't."

"What, why?"

"Dead Russian on our wind shield."

"Oh yeah. Tampering with evidence."

"Mhm."

"Dont give me that Janet shit, help me move this fucker."

"I'm not moving that, Russians are greasy."

"What, you can't touch a dead guy, now?"

"It's not that, he's greasy. And Russian."

"How the fuck are Russians greasy, what the fuck are you coming at me with right now?"

"The tracksuits."

"What the fuck are on about right now?"

"They wear tracksuits, I assume they jog or something, they must be sweaty, I'm not touching a moist, sweaty corpse."

"Guy, you fuckin' racist, are you fucking with me?"

"I am not."

"I hate you."

"Mhm."

"You fucking bitch."

"You going to move that Russian?"

"Fuck you, no." Buddy turned the key in the ignition and sharply put the car in reverse, turning, and fling the corpse into the parking lot as he followed the woman on the bike across the street into the parking lot of an abandoned convenience store.

Guy opened the passenger door, producing his side arm and badge "Hey! You two!" he shouted at the bike-blonde and the Jew she was speaking to "NAPD, don't move!"

He sat up in bed, his head pounding like a drum, his chest screaming in pain. He slammed the call button for the nurse over and over, he heard a shout and wondered if it was his.

"You were in a gang hideout."

The medicine. The little red pills. The went down with water. They tasted like rust. They helped. They made the remembering easy, but they made it hard to think. They made his head hurt worse. The nurse was pretty. Such a slender neck.

"Why were there?"

Her windpipe crushed easily, she didn't struggle as much as he was used to. Her neck was blue now. Not like the pills. He swallowed them dry, coughing as they ground against his throat. It made him feel real.

"Face down in a pool of your own blood."

The guard was harder. Plain clothes cop. He didn't hear the struggle with the nurse. The sound of the bed being knocked over drew him into the room, so brave. He should have secured his gun better, he was less brave with the barrel in his mouth. But guns were so loud. Too loud, for the patient with the drum for a skull.

"What's your name?"

The cop cuffed himself as ordered. Not a hard decision to make with a gun in your mouth. A bash across the head with the pistol would keep him quiet and asleep. The patient collapsed to the floor. His brain hurt. He felt like he couldn't breathe. His body didn't want to move. Was it the pills? Was it the wounds?

"Riddled with bullet holes."

He took the pills from the fallen nurses tray. The bottle had rolled across the room to the corner. It tried to get away from him. Silly bottle. Silly pills. He would need you later, didn't you know? He can't leave without you!

"Nearly killed by an amateur."

He crawled into the hallway. He gripped the bottle of pills tight, saying the name in his head over and over again. He couldn't forget the name of them. He needed them to remember, but what if he forgot how to remember? He had to be strong. He stared at the label, burning its image into his brain, memorizing the shape of the letters that made the name of the drug that made the remembering.

"Who were you with?"

His determination made him forget the pain. How could he forget the pain? He was supposed to remember not forget. He found the strength to make it to his feet, and into the adjacent patients room. He had watched his neighbor be carried away on a stretcher some hours ago, but that didn't mean he was useless, oh no.

"You were executed."

In the room was a pile of clothes, once belonging to a now cadaver. The blue jeans fit nice enough, and the military style jacket was warm, unlike the cold unforgiving hospital. Warm like the pills made his head feel.

"Why would you be in a gang shooting?"

The boots were too big, clumsy. He liked the feel of the cold tile on his feet anyway. The shirt made his chest hurt. The bandages were shirt enough.

"Try picturing him with a gun to your head."

He paused when he saw himself in the mirror. So thin. So pale. Was that what he looked like? He was aware for the first time that his head was wrapped tightly in bandages, and his hair was clean and hanging in front of his vision. There was something wrong about that.

"John Chen, Age 29." "Double Dragon"

Everything about the reflection was wrong. That wasn't his face. These weren't his clothes. He cried in misery, he pointed the gun at the reflection and killed it. His head split open with pain and he punched the wall, he had to focus. He knew who did this to him. He'd kill John Chen like he killed the reflection.

"Either you or the Irishman is a cop."

That didn't matter. Not like the pills mattered, or like John Chen, Age 29 mattered. He moved down the hallway with purpose. A normal man may have stopped, but he had to run from the pain in his head, he couldn't stop or it would get to him.

"You remember."

"I remember." The voice sounded distant, like a whisper in a cave. Fled out of a fire escape, an alarm causing dozens and hundreds to leap into action to escape the hospital as he did. He clenched the pills. He concealed the gun. He marched down the street with purpose, but no destination.

"What's your name?"

He smirked, the pain didn't matter anymore. He wasn't crazy. He had the pills. He had the gun. He was alive. The reflection was dead. John Chen would die, too. "My name?"

The pain was intense now. It burned and it throbbed, and he clenched his teeth as it hit him. Wave after wave after wave. Ringing in his ears. The gun had gone off a foot from his head, and everything was spinning and ringing and throbbing.

Jack heard Violet’s panicked cries into the phone, but the words slurred together into noise, barely audible for the relentless high pitched shriek that was driving him to madness. On a better day he might have cared enough to ask her who she had called. He hoped it wasn’t Vinny. He was starting to hate that sonuvabitch.

“F-fuckin’ watch it,” he murmured as the tires of his precious car screeched on the asphalt. Violet peeled around another corner and he gripped at his seat with what little strength he had left. He felt his stomach turning and closed his eyes. The car jolted and swerved and blood pounded in his skull. He wanted it to end. He wanted a drink. He wanted anything other than this.

The jolting stopped, everything was still as the car came to a halt.

Jack opened the door and fell onto his hands and knees, retching up half a bottle of bourbon onto the sidewalk.

“Fuck me…” he coughed before collapsing forward onto the concrete, soaked in blood and alcohol.

The Irishman clumsily stumbled into the door, his legs twisted around each other, and sent him collapsing to the floor where he would writhe in pain for a moment. "Uhhh, heh... 'ello lads," Luka said, as he hobbled to his feet.

From the kitchen bar, Cyrus sat on a creaky wooden stool, where he had spent the last hour quietly sipping from a bottle of cinnamon whiskey as Wade sat across from him sobbing into his coat sleeve. Glancing up at Luka with tired, world-weary eyes, Cyrus inched out of the seat, walked over to Luka, helped him regain his balance and guided him to the living room couch. Setting Luka down on the couch, Cyrus plopped down right next to him and flipped on the television as Wade's muffled cries became a bit louder.

The words 'Breaking News' glided across the TV screen as an old, well-groomed news anchor spoke, "From Houston, Texas, the flash apparently official, the President was coochie-cooed at exactly 1:00 PM central time, 2 O'clock eastern standard time, some thirty-eight minutes ago," the news anchor takes off his glasses, flips some papers on his desk, while seemingly trying to hold back some tears. He then coughs and proceeds on with the report, "The Vice President has left the hos--"

"Shit," was the only thing Cyrus said before hitting the mute button on the TV remote. Cyrus crossed his right leg over his left knee, leaned back against the armrest of the couch, and glared at the Irishman for about fifteen long seconds before finally revealing the police badge and asking, "You a cop?"